Martyn Glanville: Denmark

Showing posts with label Denmark. Show all posts

The truth about buying international train tickets in Denmark

THE OTHER day, I was at Copenhagen Central Station to buy some tickets to Frankfurt.

The first time I tried, the international sales desk was closed. I duly came back later in the day and asked for the price of a 4-berth cabin from Copenhagen to Frankfurt and back in August. The conversation went something like this...:

Sales clerk: "I can't tell you. I can't, unless you want to buy the tickets. That's the only way I can tell you how much it will be."

Me: "But I spoke to a colleague of yours a few months ago and he told me a price of 4000 Danish crowns."

SC (signing, and picking up a clipboard, which she scans): "It would be around 1200 crowns each."

Me: "Is that for a cabin?"

SC: "That's just for the basics. No add-ons!" she snapped.

Me: "So you can't tell me the cost of a cabin?"

SC: "Not unless you buy the tickets."

Me (shrugging): "Ok, I'll buy the tickets."

SC: "You can't."

Me: "I can't?"

SC: "I am too busy right now," she answered looking over my shoulder at the queue behind me.

Me: "But I waited for 15 minutes in the queue."

SC: "I have to serve these people first."

Me: "So even if you could tell me the price of the tickets, you wouldn't sell them to me?"

SC: "That's right."

Me: "Wow. What a great system you have."

SC: "I didn't design it. Try our website dsb.dk"

I left. Subsequently bought my tickets on Deutsche Bahn's website. Denmark's dsb.dk had no online facility. It did, however, have the email address of their CEO Søren Eriksen. I sent him a mail about my experiences.

Strangely, no reply at the time of writing.

Update 11/8/2010:

""We sincerely regret the circumstances on the 6th of July, when you went to inquire about a ticket fare for Frankfurt.

It is not usual practice that our passengers should feel forced to buy a ticket just to be informed about the fare, and we are very sorry about the treatment you experienced when visiting our ticket office.

We thank you for your e-mail to us and promise we will make sure this will not happen again.

Yours sincerely,

xxx xxxxxx

Manager

DSB Customer service"

Buying an iPhone in Denmark - the truth

Image via Wikipedia

YOU can't buy an iPhone from a 3 shop in Denmark if you aren't Danish.

Let me explain. Just the other day I went into my local 3 shop to join the iPhone bandwagon. As usual I had done weeks of research because I was buying some that cost more than a Pepsi and needed to be sure what I was doing.

Matey behind the counter remembers me from a previous investigative visit and smiles knowingly - "Ah ha! I have you!" he thinks.

And he does. He gets my phone and we begin the tedious paperwork process. But before pen hits paper, he asks, "Do you have any Danish picture ID like a passport or driving licence?"

No, and no. I'm English, see, so I have British passport and an EU driving licence.

"I can't sell you the phone," he says. "Our system needs that information for the subscription."

"Do you lose a lot of business?" I asked. He nodded sheepishly.

Anyway, I left the shop, went home and bought it from 3's website (for less, I might add) with the only inconvenice being a two-day delivery wait.

What a strange company.

Chipper

Image via Wikipedia

THE LOCAL COUNCIL here in Copenhagen has started a nifty scheme for bike owners concerned about theft.

Free of charge, they're issuing microchips you place inside your bike. In the event your bike is stolen, you report it and the chip's ID is tagged as stolen.

Kindly traffic wardens walking the streets carry a gizmo that beeps when in range of a bike containing a chip tagged as stolen.

So while it's not quite a tracking device, it's a sort of alert device, giving you some hope of getting your bike back.

Danish royal pooch in trouble

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

I'VE ONLY been following the goings-on in Parliament back in Blighty with half an eye. No such scandals going in Denmark. Here today the news is about a Danish royal pooch that's in trouble.

"There’s no difference between being a royal and a commoner dog," says the story.

That's breaking news.

Bilvask

Image via Wikipedia

DROPPED the car off for its first ever service this morning and was walking back to the train station when I caught the aroma of cheap cigarettes. Not burning fags, no, but the slightly sickly smell you get when a fresh pack is opened - that unpleasant prelude to the always nice niff of a just lit one, which only last for a few seconds before it starts to cause gagging.

It was then I saw I was right next to the Danish HQ of British American Tobacco, and I thought, Christ, what must it be like working in there? (I might have once found out, sort of, when I applied to their London office years ago for a web editor job before coming to Denmark, but that's not even another story so I'll stop this digression forthwith.)

I carried on my way to the station when the following, mildy arresting image caught my eye. 'Bilvask' is the Danish for 'carwash':

Quite why, then, the chappie was scrubbing away baffled me. Of course, I twigged it in a second. Kindly Danish petrol station owners give you a bucket and brush to get in to the tight spots on the wheels.

I myself have used a bilvask on two occasions. The first time, I noticed the previous user standing outside. I bought my ticket (impossibly digitised, the way techno-obsessed Denmark is - if they could find some way of frying an egg over a LAN network, they would) and asked if I stayed in the car or got out while it was being washed. The attendant shrugged and said either was ok. I drove my car in, shut the door and went to the control console where I had to scan this and pin-code that to start the wash. An Australian cyclyed by and explained he'd heard my conversation with the attendant and advised me to stay out of the car. "It's starts up real quick, mate" he didn't say (well, did, just not with the sterotypical embellishments). Sure enough, the water started spraying and a metal shutter door rolled down, sealing me off.

As a kid, I remember sitting in the car wash and loving it. So when I went the other week, I bought the boy with me, started the machine, ducked under the rolling shutter and slammed the door just as first suds hit the windscreen. We had a great time. I am 39 and he's 3. A great father-son experience.

Beats crouching outside the bilvask with a brush.

Johnny on the spot

Image via Wikipedia

MILLIONS, I know, have been waiting for my latest post.

Sorry about the delay. Been busy launching the new site but have finally got the damn thing out. Yes, I know there are some mistakes and we're working to fix them.

Much has been through my head since my last scribbling. I've been wondering which of many subjects to waffle about - how the wife's iPhone broke when she dropped it onto grass; football, inevtiably; new Google Labs stuff. But what have I settled on to mark my entrance into 2009?

Rubber johnnies. Condoms. Sheaths.

I've been in Denmark for nearly three years now and it occurred to me the other day that I have not seen a single discarded johnny on the streets. They seemed to be everywhere back in Croydon, withered and dying, tossed (boom-tisch!) in kerbs, phone boxes or in parks.

Such a disgraceful way to dispose of one of life's semi-necessities. Just another form of litter.

Danes, it would seem, don't just chuck their used rubbers into or onto the nearest convenience. I can only guess they bin them somewhere more discreet.

But then, they are a clean people. Swimming pool changing rooms display large posters instructing where exactly you need to wash yourself both before and after you've stroked a few lengths (boom-tisch-tisch!). Do it or die. I've never been anywhere where so many men honk of not aftershave but sickly body sprays. You go to a work meeting and choke when some fella walks in smelling worse than a 13-year-old boy who thinks Lynx is the key to success with the ladies.

The message is clear: "We are clean."

I myself, am not. Not to their level. I shower daily (though sometimes not at weekends, to be honest - mostly if we're having company), I brush my teeth and get a haircut every 10 or 12 weeks. True, I follow the warning posters in the swimming baths, mostly out of the fear of being lynched by sudds-up naked men should I ignore their fearsome commands. And they provide good scrubbing equipment - even for kids: special shower attachments, plastic tubs in a variety of sizes, hot water - they've got the lot.

So why do people in England through spent condoms away in the street? I think it's an English humour thing. I think the tossers (boom-tisch-tisch-tisch!) snigger inside at the thought of someone finding their mess and being repulsed by it. And a part of me finds that funny and repulsive in equal measure.

Danes often say to me, "We have the same sense of humour as you English," (usually followed by, "I love Blackadder"). Maybe I'll put that claim to the test.

I'm sure I've still got some Mates that could help me.

Minced boy

Image by FredArmitage via FlickrJUST HAD lunch.

A burger with onions, bit of salad. As I was filling my plate, a colleague remarked in Danish upon seeing the burger, "Ah, hakketdreng."

I replied in English, "See? That's how bad my Danish is. I just thought you said the burger was a "minced boy"."

"I did. It's slang for a burger."

Check the diary

Image by Agent Smith via FlickrONE OF the things I like about living in Denmark is how it operates, for the most part, like clockwork. A grand overstatement, of course, but there is a certain fixed routine about the place that gives one a sense of comfort - if you are obsessed about organisation and preparation like I am.

Christmas approaches and yet it was only a few days ago that my home city of Copenhagen suddenly went festive. A few days ago - the first of December. Now I can't move for lit trees, burning candles in windows and the sudden arrival of traditional and tasty little ginger biscuit snacks that can be found all over the workplace. If I remember England correctly, Christmas seemed to start at the end of August as shelves started filling with tins of Quality Street and Peter Kay 'best of' DVD compilations shimmered in their plastic wrapping at every checkout.

It's not just Christmas that works to a strict schedule. The ice cream parlours at the seaside seem to open on the 1st of May and close at the end of September. Nevermind if there's an indian summer where you could make a few quid more as people get out to enjoy surprise weather. No, summer has ended. Obey.

Danes holiday in the same fashion. The first half of the year in Denmark is peppered with public holidays, long weekends and so on (I read once they have more public holidays than any country in Europe, but I am not sure if that's true). Everyone goes somewhere at the same time, and you are expected to do the same. "Where will you be for the holiday?" I am frequently asked.

And there's the rub. As said at the start, I am an organisation obsessive, a person who loves timetables and keeps their watch five minutes fast to stay just ahead of the game.

But I am not very good at it. Where will I be for the holiday? I simply never get my shit together in time. We are always at home because we never remember to check when the holidays are. We never remember to conform.

So my routine is shaped by the routine of others. Others do things, while I am reminded that I forgot to do things.

It seems appropriate for Johnny Foreigners like me.

Spider-Man in Denmark

Music from and Inspired by Spider-Man album cover

Image via WikipediaHE'S AN urban hero, Spider-Man. Does well in built-up environments where there are plenty of street lights, tall buildings and other paraphernalia which help him when it comes to locomotion. Thwipping web strands from lamp-post to lamp-post makes for easy transport.

Driving through the light fog this morning, I eyed the lamp-posts running the length of the central reservation on my beloved E55 motorway and I got an image of Spider-Man swinging from one to another. It occurred to me that Peter Parker's be-webbed alter ego wouldn't have much joy out in the countryside.

Put him in a field. There may be a tree or two. He could climb them. But I could climb them too. If luck was on his side, there might be a farmhouse and a barn. Perhaps he could spin a web between the two and halt a fleeing yokel who's nicked a tractor. I can run faster than a tractor. Probably. I suppose he could jump around a bit better than me, and use his enhanced strength to gain something of an advantage, but I can't really see outside of an urban environment how he'd be that much better than you or me.

Flat countries like Denmark, the Netherlands, and Belgium (that's flat, isn't it?) don't figure that much in superhero comic book literature (do they? I'm no expert so you'll just have to trust me). That said, in Spider-Man's 40-year plus history, I feel pretty sure he's not confined himself solely to Manhattan.

If anyone can furnish me with the issues where he comes to the Danish countryside, I'd be in your debt.

Morning photographs

GOT OUT of the car this morning after arriving at work and thought the emerging light and low-level fog was interesting. Snapped these on the BlackBerry. They are testament to why later BlackBerries have dropped the camera...

Strange concrete - Part II

MORE STRANGE concrete, this time being used to counterbalance a roadroller. You see this kind of stuff when you live next to an art museum. It was rather fascinating.

Life on Mars

From left to right, the main characters in Lif...

Image via WikipediaCASTRO GLUGGER Snr. lives on party island Ibiza, and has done for pushing two decades now. Dutiful son that I am, I've been visiting him regularly for many years. It's an easy place to visit, for obvious reasons.

A curious memory from my first trips there was the exchange of battered and usually bootleg VHS video tapes among the expat community. This was a time pre-Sky when all the permanent Brits on the island had by way of televisual entertainment was whatever dross was passed around - fuzzy copies of Fatal Attraction or The Witches of Eastwick (the sexual undercurrent in such titles gave them a currency). Now everyone there is plugging in illegal feeds from satellites and all the wonders of broadcasting are theirs for the taking.

As an expat myself, I don't bother with Danish TV to be honest. And those 350 DVDs I lugged over from England don't get watched too much. Instead, I'm borrowing English telly on DVD from my neighbours - also expats. I am doing what my Dad and his chums used to do.

I'm a bit more picky. For them, it was a case of anything in English would do. For me, I can have everything I want if I can be bothered to get it. Instead, I go by recommendations.

So far, I have been lent Marion and Geoff, which I enjoyed a great deal. More recently, I caught up with Life on Mars. This struck a particular chord, not because I have been knocked down by a car and woken up in 1973, more because I am a similar fish out of water, if you'll permit me such a comparison.

There's something vaguely Auster-ish about repeating what my father did in both becoming an expat and following the rituals of that state, then finding out those rituals concern the expat experience in some respects - Sam Tyler is an expat whose home is 2006 but finds himself in the early 70s. Just as Sam is never quite sure where he is and what is real, so being in a country where you are frequently misunderstood, looked at strangely, and even find the clothing frankly bizarre is a curious experience.

It's the freakiest show.

----------------
Written while listening to Pulp - Party Hard
via FoxyTunes

'Ej, 'Ej!

NOT READY for sleep last night, I completed my Danish homework and then slumped on the sofa and did a rare thing - watched Danish telly.

As usual, I started nobly, watching the news and trying to understand what had happened in my adopted home (something in Amager; after that it was all about Google releasing Chrome).

I'm not a great TV watcher, something not helped by having the world's worst cable package from yousee.dk. About a dozen really poor Danish, Swedish, and Norwegian channels.

Tiring of not really grasping the finer points of the news, I inevitably started flicking: white noise - nature programme - white noise - white noise - documentary about dead mountain climbers - white noise - Frost - white noise - cheesy Scandi soap - white noise - GOLD!

Pushing midnight, I stumbled across 'Allo 'Allo!. This curious effort of a sitcom has always held a strange fascination for me - a wartime comedy about French resistance to occupying Nazis as seen through the eyes of a randy cafe owner is weird enough. But the language is often the strangest thing. The French characters speak English with a bad French accent. The Germans speak English with a bad German accent. The English speak a toffee-nosed version of English - all chaps this, and right-ho that.

There is one character, a British SOE man named Crabtree dropped into France to spy disguised as a policeman, who is particularly odd. He is supposed to be fluent in French, but of course, he isn't. So he speaks English with a bad French accent. Eg, he might say the line, "I was just passing so I thought I'd drop in" as "Er was jerst pissing so Er thought Er'd drip in". The episode I stumbled upon last night was Crabtree's debut, and while he was new and his full comic potential yet to be developed, his general incompetence with language struck a chord with me.

I wondered if I spoke Danish as badly as he spoke French? I don't know. Interestingly, on many occasions now, my Danish has led people to believe I am Swedish. One chap refused to believe I came from England.

My colleagues always ask how my Danish is progressing and I always tell them the same thing: I won't say how good my Danish is. It gives me an edge if you don't know how much of what you say I understand.

But I like to think when I speak it, I am burbling in some Crabtree-esque version of Danish. That would please me.

Google car spotted in Denmark?

Image via WikipediaTHE MILD hysteria about Google photographing places at street level to enhance their mapping service might have spread to Denmark.

Well, it will if I have anything to do with it.

I was bumbling down the E55 towards Copenhagen yesterday afternoon when I spied a suspicious looking vehicle going far too slow. After spitting forth bile at the driver's poor ability, I noted a strange looking device atop the car.

Could it be?

I resolved to find out. I flicked an indicator drifted into the outside line and whizzed past the snail of a car, getting a good look at the strange, rotating and yes, camera-like device on its roof. I then returned to the inside lane and waited for the roving camera car to catch up. My speed dropped, 110km, 90km, finally 60km - a dangerous speed to cruise at on any motorway, and let me tell you, my pulse was racing, sweat silvering on my forehead as I diced with death and investigated The Man, watching as he came ever closer behind me.

Eventually, Google car couldn't stand my slow driving any longer and overtook.

Checkmate. My phone ready, as he passed and dropped in front of me, I started snapping. Difficult with a mobile phone and one eye on the road.

But here's where it gets weird, and all a bit Three Days of the Condor, Men In Black, or The Parallax View, depending on your view on conspiracies. See, as soon as I'd grabbed a few photos, the Google car (if indeed it was that) took off. And I mean really took off. The guy floored it and shot ahead so quickly, I lost him in the traffic that thickens as you approach the Copenhagen outskirts.

Had he seen me taking pictures? And did he see my licence plate? And who are the big goons standing in my office right now erasing my Nokia's contents?

Or maybe the car was nothing to do with Google, and it was doing
something entirely innocent. Here are the pictures. I'll let you decide. Me? I'm reaching for my tin foil hat.

Drunken Swede tries to row home from Denmark

Straits named Belt or Sund in denmark and sout...

Image via WikipediaTHIS UNFORTUNATE chap will be mocked and laughed at for years to come, but you know what I say?

I say salute the sea-faring hero!

Show me the man who hasn't embarked upon a hairbrained scheme after a few too many sherberts. Why, I myself remember nearly killing myself as a youth walking home in the middle of winter one night in Croydon 20 years ago, far too many pints swilling around inside me, a worn Crombie overcoat keeping the cold at bay. I thought, as the temperature plunged ever lower, that wouldn't it be nice to just curl up in a quiet front garden and sleep.

I probably would have died from exposure.

Probably happens a lot every winter.

But this fella, hail him, a septuagenarian no less, decides to row five kilometres across the particularly busy and choppy Øresund, to his Swedish home. Not content with this feat of seamanship, I like best the fact that he gave up along the way and entrusted his fate to the tides and currents.

The Danes are loving this story, I am sure, given their penchant for slagging the Swedes and their drinking habits. But I think this man should be commended for his initiative. The Danes, I am sure, would have considered it for six months, hired a brace of overpaid consultants to investigate it, and then ask the world and his wife if it was ok.

Dane-gerous Driving

The Great Belt Fixed Link, seen from the Zealand side.

Image via WikipediaUNDERTAKING seems to be a commonplace occurrence on the motorways of Denmark. I notice it daily - mad souls veering from lane to lane because they absolutely, positively have to be there on time. Or not.

I just think they are shit drivers.

But wait! I have evidence. Well, a theory.

Ok, just a thought (and those are rare these days).

Thing is, the Danes have only recently come into money. The past ten or twelve years saw them realise the value of the enormous apartments and houses they have lived in for decades. (Apparently, profits from the sale of properties used to be taxed heavily, discouraging people to sell to earn a few bob.) So after they sold and made a packet over night, they all fancied themselves as well to do and went and bought motors.

Until then, they'd always cycled. What happened? Of course, they immediately started driving the same way they cycle - on a whim, haphazardly, capriciously. It's because their road heritage is on two wheels and self-propelled, whereas I come from a place and time (Croydon, the 1980s), where all any 17-year-old kid wanted to do was get a car.

Upshot? I'm a better driver.

So there.

Buying a car in Denmark - the truth

A combination of new job and, er, suppressed wanting, found me in a car showroom last Sunday. Your Danish car dealership, being in a country where Saturday still counts for something (not my choice, but there you go), is open Mon-Fri plus Sunday. These hardworking salesmen need time off too.

I'd arranged to test drive a Mitsubishi Colt, one of the more affordable cars one can pick from in this land of high tax. I'd called in advance to book the test but was told it wasn't necessary. Just bring your driving licence. So I showed up, mooched around the Colts, sat inside one and inhaled new car, then went and asked for a test drive. They photocopied my licence then handed me a set of keys. "Take the one outside," said Leif, the grey, middle-aged seller. I walked outside, saw the car, and got in. So he wasn't coming with me? I'd be left to my own devices? And what about guarantees, waivers, and other documentation I'd signed in England when I'd last test driven a car? Naw. No problem. Maybe I am out of touch, probably am, but this seemed a splendid idea to me. Alone, I could thrash the beast to within an inch of its life - so I did.

It responded wonderfully, throaty roar in first, sashaying through corners, almost as fast in reverse as forward. Half an hour later, I cornered back into the dealership and told Leif, "I'll buy it." He seemed perturbed at my decision (he didn't know I'd done hours of research online), but then shrugged like a Finn and walked past the hospitality table (open bottles of wine for potential punters to guzzle!) and we sat at a desk. Ten minutes later, it was done. I'd bought a brand new, black Colt 1.1 Insport with three years fully comp insurance, three years pan-European breakdown cover, air conditioning as an extra, and the equivalent of £300 delivery charge for the sum of £16,000. Leif never tried to sell me credit, spoilers, fancy wheels or any other garbage.

"It's a Mitsubishi," was about all he said, a little glumly. "It's a good car." I could tell it pained him to shake on the deal.

Knock off a grand for the equivalent UK fully comp insurance for three years and it works out at about £7000 more than the UK Colt. Mine has more stuff on it (I get an MP3 player and eight million speakers, air con, and refrigerated glove box - whoopee) but yes, I know, not seven grand's worth of more stuff. They say new car tax in Denmark is 180%. Maybe it is, I can't be arsed to calculate back to see. Point is, you won't get around it so if you want a new motor, you pay it. You have to stop comparing.

Where am I going? A few weeks back, I asked my Danish colleagues about car taxes before I purchased. In true Danish tradition (ie, always answer with the negatives), they all launched into uninformed terror tales of the costs, the extortion, how you will never be able to afford it, and waxing lyrical about their hatred for all those low-lifes who buy cars with yellow number plates (signifying no more than two people are allowed in the car at any one time, thus qualifying for a substantial tax break). One said to me, "Put aside DKK4000 (£400) a month for a car!" Another claimed, "The weight of the car. You have to pay tax on that!" One more hollered, "The green tax! That has to be paid." "The car bill is one we pay and don't look at," said the same numpty who claimed it would cost me 400 knicker a month to keep a set of wheels on the road.

I asked about road tax. "I don't know," they said. One didn't even know what car she drove!

So, here for the record, is the deal with Danish new car tax as March 2008: you pay a tax on the car that's in the quoted price of the car, that's why they are expensive. You cannot escape it (unless you want yellow plates). Accept it. Consider it part of the purchase price. After that, you pay one tax and one tax alone and that is based on emissions. The lower the emissions, the lower the tax. (A 1.1 Colt sets you back £150 a year.) There's no road tax like in the UK. There's no weight tax (phased out a decade ago and replaced with emissions or green tax). There's no 180% tax on top of the quoted price of the car. It is actually remarkable simple. Expensive, but simple.

Fuel is currently cheaper than the UK, so yah-boo-sucks to you. Think about that when you're spending the seven grand I had to give to the Danish government. Eh? Oh.